not exactly cold, but it lacked much of the old warmth and heartiness.
Bergan took no notice of it; he readily divined what chords of painful
association were thrilled at the sight of him, and how inevitably her
pride revolted against being seen in her present surroundings. Her
hand was so cold, when he took it in his, that he pressed it between
both his own, with a vague idea of warming it; then, stirred by a
sympathy too deep for ordinary expression, he bent over and touched it
with his lips.
"You are not wise," said Astra, with a faint smile; "you should not do
homage to a fallen princess."
"Neither do I," rejoined Bergan, with a deep music in his voice. "She
is not fallen, but holding out most bravely against the time when she
may expect succor."
"Succor?" responded Astra, with a mixture of pride and
mournfulness,--"from what or whom could acceptable succor come?"
Bergan smiled, and pointed upward. "From the Source of all succor,
whatever be the channel."
Astra shook her head, and the lines of her mouth grew set and hard.
"Acceptable succor comes in season," said she, "and through legitimate
channels."
Bergan was confounded. This lack of faith, this arraignment of
Providence, argued a more amazing change in Astra than he had yet
suspected. At the same time it afforded him a clue to that mysterious
connection, in his mind, between her face and Miss Thane's. Under the
hardness of the one and the coldness of the other, the same scepticism
lay hidden,--possibly engendered by similar causes. In Astra's case,
he had no hesitation in attributing it to Doctor Remy's influence; and
he could not but wonder at the singular and fatal power of the man over
the minds of those who were brought into close contact with him. Was
this deadly poison to be also instilled into the pure mind of Carice?
He shuddered at the thought. Better for her to lie dead at the bottom
of the river, by which he had last seen her soft, rapt face.
Feeling that this was no time to argue with Astra, Bergan turned to the
table, which was littered with drawings and sketches, plaster reliefs,
and small clay models, to a degree that implied no lack of patient
industry, despite the want of encouragement, and the absence of faith.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"Nothing, just now," she answered, mournfully. "I believe my hands
have lost their cunning,--if ever they had any. That is the last."
She pointed to a small bas-relief.
It represented a child, skipping lightly down a flowery slope, trailing
a vine behind her. The face was turned so far away from the beholder,
as to show only the rounded outline of the youthful cheek and brow, but
the figure expressed a wonderful joyousness. In more senses than one,
it was plainly, "In the Sunshine;" which title was lightly scratched in
the plaster.
Bergan studied it attentively. "It is as fresh as a rose," said he,
"and as sweet."
"The analogy, if there be any, goes deeper than that," rejoined Astra,
bitterly. "A rose is born out of darkness and dampness and decay, and
this is the offspring of pain and discouragement, and all that makes
the hand weak and the heart sick."
"And that is probably the secret of its perfection," remarked Bergan,
meditatively. "The loveliest graces of character--such as charity that
thinketh no evil, and hope that lives by faith, not by sight--are the
legitimate children of suffering. Then why not the finer works of art?"
Astra's eyes fell, and she did not answer.
"At any rate," pursued Bergan, "this 'Sunshine' is just what I want to
brighten my office. I was thinking, this very day, that something must
be done to make it less dismal. I suppose it is for sale?"
Astra bent her head a little stiffly. She doubted the reality of this
new-born desire for office decorations.
He took out his purse, and laid a folded bank-note on the table. He
expected that she would not look at it, until after he had gone, but
she immediately took it up, opened it, and tendered it back to him.
"It is too much," said she proudly. And her look added, "I am no
beggar."
"Is it?" inquired Bergan, with apparent surprise. "I thought it agreed
tolerably well with the prices that you used to mention as the least
you would receive for your works, in the future."
"I have lived to grow wiser," replied Astra,
"It is all the same," rejoined Bergan composedly, "I was about to say
that, as my mother has long been entreating me to send her some sort of
a portrait, it occurs to me that I cannot do better than to get you to
make a medallion or a bust of me, whichever you please. The balance of
the note can go toward the first payment. We will arrange for the
sittings, as soon as you are at leisure."
Astra's lip trembled. Put in this way, the note might be retained; and
no one knew so well as herself what an amount of relief to her, and of
comfort to her mother, it ensured. But her pride was very sore,
nevertheless, and her face was little grateful, as she dropped the note
on the table, somewhat as if it had burned her fingers.
Bergan hastened to change the subject. "I am sorry not to see your
mother," he began; but Astra interrupted him.
"She would like to see you very much," said she, "if you don't mind
coming to her room. It is several days since she has left it; though I
really think that she is better to-day."
"Why should I mind?" asked Bergan, smiling. "She used to call me her
son sometimes; though you do take such pains to give me to understand
that you utterly repudiate me as a brother."
Astra turned her face aside, to conceal the sudden unbending of the set
mouth. "Indeed, I do not," she faltered.
Bergan drew her toward him, just as a brother would have done. "Then
you will help me to persuade her to move into more comfortable
quarters, at once. I promise you that it shall be arranged so
carefully as to give her the least possible fatigue."
Astra shook her head. "It cannot be; it would excite her too much.
Her disease is of the heart; and joy kills as surely as sorrow. When I
moved her here,--being imperatively forced to do so, because I could
not afford to stay where we were,--I determined that, let come what
would, she should not be stirred again, until she is a great deal
better or--worse. Thank you for the kind thought, but indeed she is
best off here, for the present,--now that I have the means of making
her tolerably comfortable."
In the last sentence, there was some trace of Astra's old self; and,
glad to have gained thus much, Bergan followed her to Mrs. Lyte's
bedside.
If he still cherished any belief in the feasibility of removing her, it
vanished with the first sight of her face. He wondered what could have
led Astra to think her better. Even to his inexperienced eyes, the
struggling breath, the beaded forehead, the ashy pallor, indicated but
too plainly that the thread of her life was wellnigh spun.
Yet she was less changed, in some respects, than Astra. Her smile had
the old sweetness; her face--when the excitement caused by his
unexpected visit was calmed a little, and she could breathe easier--had
the old expression of gentle resignation. It lighted up, too, at sight
of him;--as he had reminded Astra, she had come to regard him with a
half-motherly affection, during his residence in her house.
"It is very good of you to come to us," she said, gratefully; "it seems
a great while since I have seen any friendly face."
"If I had only known that you were in Savalla, I should have come much
sooner," answered Bergan.
"And if I had known that you were here," she responded, "I should
certainly have sent for you. It is strange, Astra, that we never
happened to hear of him."
Astra's face flushed a little. "We are not in the way of hearing
news," she replied, evasively. "But now that he is here, to sit with
you a few minutes, I will run out and get that prescription filled,
which the doctor left this morning."
Bergan rose instantly. "Let me go, rather," said he.
"N-o, no," said Mrs. Lyte, "it will do her good to have a little run.
Besides, I want to talk with you."
Bergan sat down again, and Cathie nestled to his side. Nix, too, came
and lay down at his feet, quite in the old Berganton fashion.
"I am very glad to see you," continued Mrs. Lyte, when Astra had left
the room, "but I am afraid it is largely a selfish gladness. I am so
certain that you will see what can be done for my children after I am
gone."
Bergan opened his lips to speak, but she lifted her hand with a
deprecating gesture, and went on:--
"Let me say what I want to say; I shall be so much easier in my mind.
Do you know how we came to leave Berganton?"
"I do not; I only heard of it when I went back there, in the Fall."
Mrs. Lyte briefly explained the circumstances which had led to the
removal. She stated, furthermore, that she had written to Major
Bergan, upon the failure of the Bank where her money was invested, and
inquired if he had sold the house, and whether there was any balance in
her favor. To which he replied that he had done nothing about the
matter, and proposed to do nothing, at present; he only wished that she
would come back, and live in it, as before. But this was impossible,
she had now no means of maintaining so large and expensive a place.
She had, therefore, written again, to the effect that she asked nothing
better than the immediate foreclosure of the mortgage, and the sale of
the property. Would he attend to it at his earliest convenience, and
forward her the balance? To this letter there had been no reply; she
took it for granted that a purchaser had not been found. What she
desired of Bergan, in the event of her death, which she believed to be
near at hand, was to hurry forward the sale of the place, and secure
something for Astra, if possible. This he promised to do; and he
added, in a tone that brought instant conviction to her mind, and tears
of gratitude to her eyes, that, however this matter terminated, neither
Astra nor Cathie should lack friendly aid, at need.
When he finally took his leave, Bergan beckoned Astra to the door.
"Are you alone here?" he inquired. "Is there no one to share your
labors and your cares?"
"We brought our old Chloe with us," replied Astra; "she would not be
left behind, and indeed, I do not know what we should have done without
her. But lately the good old creature has insisted upon going out to
do a day's washing, now and then, to bring something into the family
purse; she is out to-day. When she is home, she does all she can."
Bergan recollected the old slave, and doubted nothing of her fidelity.
But, in the woful event that he foresaw, Astra would need other help,
other sympathy, he thought.
"Is there no one you can send for,--no relative, no friend, in
Berganton, or elsewhere?" he persisted.
"None," replied Astra. "And what accommodations have we for such a
friend, if we had one?"
There was nothing more to be said. He shook her hand warmly, told her
that he had promised her mother to come again on the morrow, lifted his
hat, with his usual courtesy, and went down the street, in such a maze
of pity and perplexity, that he forgot to notice which way he went.
When he became cognizant of his whereabouts, he was standing before a
large, old-fashioned mansion fronting on one of the principal squares
of the city. On the door was a silver plate, bearing the name of "DIVA
THANE, ARTIST."
VII.
ORDERED STEPS.
Bergan was much struck with the fact that his aimless walk--aimless, at
least, so far as his own intention was concerned--had first led him, in
virtue of his meeting with Cathie, to Mrs. Lyte's bedside, and next to
the studio of Miss Thane. Accepting both these leadings as parts of
the same providential plan, though he could discern but the slightest
possible relation between them, he knocked at the studio door.
"Come in!" was the immediate response, in Miss Thane's clear, cold
monotone.
Bergan pushed open the door, which was a little ajar, and found himself
in the presence of the artist. She was standing at her easel, palette
and brushes in hand; and she waited to give several touches to her
work, before turning toward her visitor.
If she felt any surprise at sight of him, her face betrayed none. Yet
it seemed to Bergan that some change had come over that face since he
beheld it last--a certain suggestion of weariness under its languor, of
dissatisfaction under its chill pride--which he accepted as a good
augury for the task that he had in hand.
Miss Thane seemed to divine, at once, that his visit had some object
other than the pleasure of seeing either herself or her pictures.
After a few quiet words of greeting, she rested one hand upon her
easel, and stood waiting, calm, proud, and exceeding beautiful, to be
informed of its nature.
Bergan was scarcely prepared to make known his errand so abruptly. He
had promptly entered the studio, in obedience to his first impulse; but
he had counted upon some little time thereafter to arrange his thoughts
and feel his way, some flow of conversation to be duly turned to his
advantage, or some clue to the deep mystery of Miss Thane's
sympathies,--possibly, too, some further light upon the inscrutable
design of Providence, in sending him hither.
After all, was not the most straightforward course likely to be the
best one?
"Miss Thane," said he, gravely, "my own volition has had so little to
do with bringing me here, that I scarcely know why I am come. But I
believe that it is to try to interest you in a sister artist--a
sculptor--who is in sore need of aid that you might give her."
Miss Thane put her hand into her pocket, and drew out her purse; but
before she could open it, Bergan stopped her with a deprecating gesture.
"Pardon me," said he, "but that sort of aid, I can give myself, if it
be necessary."
"What am I to do, then?" asked Miss Thane, wonderingly.
"Whatever one delicate, refined, large-hearted woman can do for
another, in the way of cheer, encouragement, sympathy, and consolation."
Miss Thane gave him a long look out of her deep eyes, partly surprised,
partly meditative.
"What put it into your head to come to me on such an errand?" she
finally asked, with a singular, half satirical emphasis.
"Because when I was wondering to whom I could go," answered Bergan, "I
found myself standing before your door. Because you did me the honor,
two weeks ago, to ask me a certain question, and I thought that this
might be the beginning of a better answer than I was able to give you."
Miss Thane slowly walked to the other end of the room, and fixed her
eyes on the deep red gold of the western horizon, whence the sun still
shed a soft posthumous influence over the earth.
"What does it matter," she murmured to Herself, "if I do surrender
somewhat of my freedom? I have had a fair trial of an isolated
life--divested of every irksome bond, burden, and duty, shut up to the
one friend that I trust, and the one occupation that I love--and what
has it done for me? Absolutely nothing; except to make me daily colder
in heart, and narrower in mind. Is it not time to try something else?"
She turned back to Bergan, and her face, though it was still weary, was
no longer proud.
"I am sensible of the honor that you have done me," said she, with
unusual gentleness; "I will try to deserve your good opinion. Where am
I to find the lady of whom you speak, and in what way can I render her
the most essential service?"
Bergan quietly placed a chair for her.
"Sit down," said he, "and let me tell you the whole story; at least, as
far as I know it myself."
As he talked, the gold faded out of the sky, and the gray twilight
shadows crept into the room, turning the pictures on the walls into
pale, vague outlines, and giving a wonderful softness to Miss Thane's
listening face. Nor did the story end until the pictures had become
indistinguishable masses of shadow, and nothing was left of the face
but its deep, lustrous eyes. Its owner had not once spoken; and it
quite escaped Bergan's notice, in the dimness, that she gave a sudden,
violent start when Mrs. Lyte's full name was mentioned.
"Thus, you see," he concluded, "it is not only a disappointed,
discouraged, anxious heart (soon, alas! to become a mourning one) that
I commend to your tender sympathies, but a sorely wounded faith. If
you cannot heal the latter, do not, I charge you, help to destroy it."
"I will not," answered she, solemnly; "I promise you that I will not.
How could I, when I am half inclined to believe that such
faith--unfounded, illusory though it be--is a better thing than any
reality that we exchange it for."
Bergan slightly lifted his eyebrows. "May I ask," said he, quietly,
"to what reality, or realities, you refer?"
"You press me hard," answered she, bitterly, after a pause; "none, none
that I can think of just now. Everything seems vague, unreal,
unsubstantial."
"Fall back on faith," returned Bergan, smiling. "If it be not a
reality itself, it works realities. It fosters real virtues, and
inspires real heroism; by it men live nobly, and die courageously.
What reality can do more for them,--indeed, what one does so much?"
He waited for a moment, expecting an answer. Seeing that none came, he
bowed, and left her sitting there, gazing out into the silent night.
On the following morning, Astra was in her studio, busily plying her
needle, while her mother slept, when there came a light knock on the
door. Opening it, she found herself face to face with a lady of such
rare and remarkable beauty, that she stood motionless, lost in wonder
and admiration.
The stranger bent her head with the stately, yet friendly, grace of one
princess to another; and a smile just touched her lips, and then seemed
to sink into her eyes, shining farther and farther down in their clear
depths, until it vanished from sight.
"Will you allow me the pleasure of looking into your studio?" asked
she, in a voice as perfect as her face; "I have heard so much of its
marvels, that I am desirous of seeing them for myself."
Astra mutely made way; her visitor glided into the room, cast a quick,
comprehensive glance around, and sat down in front of the statue of
Mercury.
"Do not let me interrupt you," she said to Astra, "but just go on with
whatever you are about, and allow me to study this at my leisure."
Astra hesitated a moment, and then took up the work that she had
dropped,--one of Cathie's much-enduring aprons, that she was trying to
darn into some semblance of respectability. But she could not help
stealing an occasional glance at the clear-cut profile of her guest,
until, all her artistic instincts being thoroughly aroused, she was
fain to seize upon crayon and cardboard, and make sure of the lovely
outline, ere it should vanish, as she expected it would soon do,
utterly and forever from her sight.
The guest, meanwhile, studied the Mercury in profound silence. Yet
Astra soon felt that an uncommonly deep and delicate discernment was
brought to bear on her work, capable of accurately measuring both its
excellences and its faults. There was something inspiriting in the
very thought,--it was so seldom that her sculpture was favored with a
really intelligent glance! Her eyes brightened, her hands recovered
their cunning, the crayon sketch grew into lifelikeness without effort,
almost without consciousness, save when she stopped to marvel, now and
then, at its exceeding beauty and delicacy. Yet it did no more than
justice to the original,--scarcely that, indeed;--where did she get
that face, and who could she be!
She had left the Mercury now, after a few--a very few words of
commendation, yet spoken so cordially and discriminately as to be worth
volumes of ordinary praise to Astra; and she was looking gravely into
the upturned eyes of the Cherub. Glancing from, it to its creator, she
said, with a faint smile;--
"I wish you could put _that_ look into my face."
Astra shook her head. "I could not put it anywhere _now_," she
answered, drearily.
The stranger gave her a compassionate glance. "I wonder," said she,
musingly, "whether it is better to have had such faith and lost it, or
never to have had it at all."
"It is better to have lost it," replied Astra quickly, and with a
slight shudder. "One can live in the hope of finding it again."
The visitor sighed, and turned to look at the sketches on the wall.
By and by, she slid easily into a discourse about various art-matters;
holding Astra spellbound, for awhile, with the fluent richness of her
diction, and the extent of her knowledge. Nor was Astra allowed to
listen only. A certain graphic portrayal of art-life in Italy having
stirred her to the depths, and kindled the old fire and energy of
enthusiasm in her eyes, she was skilfully drawn on to talk of herself
and her work, her aims, longings, limitations, and needs, as she had
never talked before, because she had never before met with so
understanding and sympathetic an auditor.
In the midst of one of her animated sentences, a low moan was heard
from the inner room. "Excuse me," said Astra hurriedly, amazed to see
how completely she had forgotten her cares, fears, and griefs, in the
magic of the stranger's presence,--"Excuse me, I must go to my mother."
Mrs. Lyte had waked, as was too often the case, in a spasm of pain.
Astra hastened to call Cathie from the kitchen to assist the laboring
breath with gentle wafts of air from a fan, while she herself measured
some drops of a soothing mixture, and lifted her mother's head on her
arm, to enable her to swallow and to breathe more easily. Several
anxious moments had passed thus, in silence broken only by the painful
respirations of the invalid, when a low, sweet strain of melody stole
so gently into the room that Astra could not tell, at first, from
whence it came. So soft was it that it melted into the ear without
making any apparent demand upon the attention, yet so clear that not
one liquid note was lost. The swollen veins of Mrs. Lyte's forehead
subsided; her chest ceased its agonized heaving; a peaceful, happy
smile broke over her face.
"What is it?" she asked, wonderingly, when the strain ended,--not
abruptly, but gradually growing fainter, until it was impossible to
tell just at what point sound became silence.
Astra whispered softly that she had left a strange visitor in the
studio, who appeared to be singing unconsciously to herself.
"If she would only sing again!" murmured Mrs. Lyte, wistfully.
With her usual impulsiveness, Cathie rushed to the studio door. "Mamma
wishes you would sing--" she began, and then stopped short, no less
surprised and fascinated by the face that met her gaze than her sister
had been.
The stranger reflected for a moment, then her voice again pervaded the
air, as with the very soul of restful melody. As she sang, the child
moved slowly toward her, drawn as irresistibly as the magnet to the
loadstone, till she stood close to her side, encircled by her arm, and
gazing at her with round, wondering eyes. As the song ceased, she slid
her hand half-curiously, half-timidly over her shoulder.
"Have you wings?" she asked, earnestly. "Did you fly down?"
Before the visitor could reply, except by a swift expression of
something like pain that flitted across her face, Astra appeared in the
doorway.
"Mother wishes to see you, and thank you," she said. "Will you step
this way?"
The lady rose, and moved quietly into the inner room. At sight of her
face, Mrs. Lyte gave a violent start; the thanks she was about to speak
died on her lips; she could only cry out in amazement;--"Who are you?"
The stranger knelt by the bedside, and took both Mrs. Lyte's hands in
her soft, cool grasp. "I am the daughter of your runaway sister, Aunt
Katie," she answered, "and my name is Godiva Thane."
"But she died, and she left no child," said Mrs. Lyte, incredulously.
"She died in giving me birth," returned Diva, with convincing
positiveness. "I have long suspected that my father did not let you
know, he never forgot the opposition to his marriage; besides, he was
jealous of his only child's affections. You must needs forgive
him,--for he is dead."
Several questions followed, on Mrs. Lyte's part; to which Diva gave
long, detailed answers, skilfully contrived to satisfy her aunt's
curiosity, tranquillize her emotions, and bring her, in a brief space,
to a tolerably peaceful and composed state of mind.
"Can I do anything for you before I go?" she then asked.
"Nothing, dear, unless you will sing to me--a hymn; there are tones in
your voice which are more soothing than any anodyne."